


The Worst Pain

by literaryspell



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Bloodplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryspell/pseuds/literaryspell





	The Worst Pain

It was ugly, Verlaine decided. This pale and flawless body, with its silly joints and flesh, with its useless peaks and dips; it was ugly.

 

“A quill!” he called imperiously, never doubting that these words would be obeyed. Perhaps no other words of his held weight, had merit, but _these words_ were important.

 

As expected, as hoped, as needed, a quill was pressed into his waiting fingers, and they clenched reflexively against the proper and familiar shape. A messy and sticky pot of ink was placed on the bed as well, anointing the sheets with a new stain, unfamiliar and not as important as the other stains. 

 

Verlaine straddled Rimbaud’s naked body, uncaring that his weight was unwelcomed, uncaring that his canvas was half-asleep and half dead with drink. He took the younger man’s hand and manipulated it so it was palm up, and he placed the pot of ink in the hand, closing the fingers around it and allowing the ink’s tackiness to secure its position.

 

“Allow it to spill and you will be very sorry.”

 

Rimbaud rolled his eyes and glared up at the body covering his own. Verlaine only laughed shakily, the tendrils of an idea forming, wispy, curling around the edges. It would shoot him words, words he wanted to use, words that when mated with other words could make beauty. Ideas that when mated with other ideas could make change. Thoughts that when mated with other thoughts could make decadence.

 

His parchment was unsatisfactory.

 

Verlaine dipped the mottled and worn quill into the ink. Rimbaud watched patiently from below, a patience that knew bounds and would run out if Verlaine’s words were not good enough. 

 

Pressing the quill to the quivering flesh, he wrote over the heart:

 

_ C’est bien la pire peine _

 

The black ink was shiny and slick, bleeding at the edges and spreading into those heretofore invisible cracks in Rimbaud’s flesh. Why had he not told Verlaine of these cracks? A paper must absorb the ink, not resist!

 

“Why do you reject the words?” he asked casually, dipping the quill and blotting the excess ink. Less ink made less of a statement; less ink meant the words were not as real. But it was less ink or no words.

 

“Perhaps the words are rejecting me?”

 

His voice was scratchy from sleep and screaming, and Verlaine decided he does not need to hear the other man speak any further.

 

Over his ribs, the quill catching slightly on the fire-flickering flesh without the surplus ink to smooth the way, Verlaine wrote:

 

_ De ne savoir pourquoi _

 

He did not like the cut of the ‘q,’ so he spat on Rimbaud and wiped the sentence away, making sure to repeat the words in his head in case they are wiped from there as well. He scrawled it again, ignoring Rimbaud’s protests at being spat upon. He passed him the liquor bottle and the noises ceased. The bottle’s neck was broken from an unceremonious landing, but Rimbaud swallowed the blood with the drink and dropped his head back against the pillow, crimson ink spilling from his mouth. His eyes were glazed and his cock hard. 

 

Verlaine rocked his hips a little against the man beneath him. He liked the feel of his arousal swelling with the words, his desire escaping like language from his body.

 

He used Rimbaud’s blood to fill his quill for the next line, pressing the quill to his swollen lip. It didn't work as well as the ink, but it also didn't spread as much. He liked the look of this much better. The skin beneath his words swelled slightly from the pressure of the sharp metal tip, breaking the skin in some places and mixing blood with blood.

 

_ Sans amour et sans haine _

 

For the last line, Verlaine moved down the gently writhing body to straddle his knees instead. He put the quill into his mouth and sucked the blood and ink from it, liking the bitter and foreign taste.

 

Once the quill was clean, he set it to Rimbaud’s skin, just above his pubic hair in the softness of his lower belly. The first passing of the words did not break the skin, but Verlaine could see fairly clearly where they were.

 

“That’s starting to hurt, you fool,” Rimbaud stated acerbically, taking another swill of the pink-tinged liquor.

 

Verlaine grabbed Rimbaud’s cock, abusing it into hardness as he passed over the line again. Some of the words welled and bled, but most were only angry red lines. Rimbaud was trying to thrust up into his hand, but Verlaine wouldn’t allow it, slapping his hip until the movement ceased.

 

One more time Verlaine wrote the final line to his verse, pleased as the quill passed through the torn flesh with more ease, perforating the skin until the blood drowned the words. He had thought he would have had to put the quill into the candle to get the words down.

 

Verlaine grabbed the liquor bottle, noting with disdain that his lover had consumed an inconsiderate amount, and tipped it over the new wound.

 

Rimbaud screamed and shook as the fluid passed over his cuts, slapping at Verlaine and cursing in such a limited way that Verlaine had to wonder at his command of the language after all. 

 

“Goddamn you! Goddamn you! I was so fucking close!”

 

Verlaine studied the bloodied words, quickly disappearing again and slightly blurred under the pooled alcohol. His hand continued to stroke the cock that had wilted a little after the application of the cleansing liquid. 

 

_ Mon coeur a tant de peine _

 

He wiped it all clean with a shirt and took the pot of ink that was held tightly in Rimbaud’s clenched hand. He poured a little over the cuts, rubbing the ink into the words, sealing them forever. His words, his body, his poetry, his.

 

Rimbaud cried out when his orgasm ripped through him and Verlaine took some of his come and rubbed that in as well. _Consecrated_.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, sadist?” Rimbaud demanded, gingerly wiping the mess off his lower body. Verlaine was pleased to see that the ink had settled in the wound and the words were clearly visible. 

 

“Everything is right with me,” he corrected, leaning over the flushed and shaking body of his lover and pressing his bitten and chapped lips against Rimbaud’s. He felt that triumph that came with creating something and wondered if that was how mothers felt.

 

Pushing Verlaine away, Rimbaud sat up to read the words. They were upside down to him, so he struggled to make sense of the poetry. Verlaine reread it with him, quite liking both the words and the placement. It meant something to have marked this silly little genius, this pretty little savant. Maybe his own words were naught compared to Rimbaud’s, whose words were new and frightening, but Rimbaud must like his poetry if he allowed himself to be branded with it.

 

“It is trite,” he stated dryly, smirking provokingly up at Verlaine, who shrugged impassively. It mattered not to him; he knew the worth of the words.

 

“It means nothing. You try so hard to mean something that all value is lost in your desperation. I wonder... if you tried to mean nothing, would you create true beauty?”

 

“I created you,” Verlaine reminded him. “When everyone else destroyed you, I created you.”

 

Rimbaud passed a finger absently over the brutal cuts on his belly, pressing down to renew the flow and feeling. His cock was slowly filling as it so often did when he insulted his lover, when he taunted and tormented Verlaine.

 

Rolling over onto his belly, dispelling Verlaine from his perch, Rimbaud spread his legs invitingly.

 

“It is like this. I allowed you to create me, and now that I have form and function, you are of no value. If you cannot make yourself useful, I shall be forced to destroy myself and begin anew.”

 

Verlaine’s hand trailed down Rimbaud’s spine to part his cheeks. A finger teasingly settled on his entrance, and Rimbaud shifted impatiently.

 

“If anyone destroys you, it should be me,” the older man declared softly, pushing the tip of his finger within. A second finger joined the first; Verlaine’s own come from an earlier exploit easing the way. 

 

“Stupid man,” Rimbaud gasped, hips pushing back against the invading digits. “ _You_ can only destroy yourself.”

 

Verlaine knew this to be true, so he said nothing. He removed his fingers to pull Rimbaud back by his hips, forcing him onto his hands and knees. He didn't need to tell his young lover to lower his head to the bed; Rimbaud did it automatically. 

 

Pressing his desperate cock against Rimbaud’s abused entrance, he couldn’t help but take a moment to appreciate the way everything in his life seemed to be perfect at that time. His wife meant nothing. His child, nothing. Everything that was important, everything that _was_ , was right here. Only Rimbaud, only this.

 

Sinking deep inside Rimbaud’s body, Verlaine tried to feel something profound. He would be lying if he denied using this man as a muse. Many great ideas, many beautiful words had come from immersing himself in the tight heat of this squirming body. Verlaine ignored the impassioned cry of the man beneath him, imploring him to _move_. Verlaine would move when the poem came.

 

And then, like a disease, the idea spread through him, seeping in through his cock and branching to his every extremity. The poetry leaked from Rimbaud into Verlaine’s eager receptacle, a mere vessel for the idea until parchment made it his. He knew Rimbaud would hate him for stealing his poetry this way, but, ah, it was too good to give up.

 

Verlaine slowly thrust into the desperately clenching body, his fingertips creating furrows in the flesh of Rimbaud’s hips. 

 

Uncaring about whether Rimbaud found pleasure, uncaring about anything except his own completion, Verlaine pounded mercilessly into the pliant form beneath him, eyes unseeing, mind focused only on the words.

 

It was mere luck that Rimbaud cried out first, for Verlaine would have stopped after he himself finished. Hot come added to the many messes on the bed, and Verlaine wished he could take these sheets home with them, put them on his own bed and force his wife to sleep naked beside him in the spoils of the only love he’d ever let hurt him so.

 

Verlaine reached satisfaction with a victorious roar, filling the twitching hole and hoping for a simple, selfless second that he gave to Rimbaud as much as he took from him.

 

Rimbaud fell exhausted onto his stomach, shouting as the open sore of Verlaine’s poetry met the come he’d shot on to the bed. He turned quickly onto his back and reached for the bottle of liquor. He drank of it deeply, eyeing Verlaine arrogantly.

 

“Off, then?” he asked, pulling the bottle out of the older man’s reach.

 

“Yes,” Verlaine answered, a little warily.

 

Rimbaud sighed. “I wish I did not have your worthless words on my body.”

 

Verlaine was quiet as he dressed, not even caring to wipe off his dick before going home to Mathilde. 

 

“I wish I did not have your worthless body on my words,” he said softly, easing his cruel words only slightly by gently kissing the wet lips of his poem.

   
  
  
 _Fin._  
  
  


 

Translation:

_ By far the worst pain, _

_ Without hatred, or love, _

_ Yet no way to explain _

_ Why my heart feels such pain! _

 

Taken from: _It Rains In My Heart..._ (Romances Sans Paroles: Arriettes Oubliées III)

# 

 


End file.
